


Unbearable

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Crusader AU, Crusades, Denial of Feelings, Language Barrier, M/M, Thorin POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot of an art piece (link in notes), set in closetshipping's Crusaders AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbearable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nutzone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutzone/gifts).



> So this is inspired by [closetshipping's](http://closetshipping.tumblr.com) excellent [Crusaders AU](http://closetshipping.tumblr.com/tagged/muslim-thorin). [This piece](http://closetshipping.tumblr.com/post/94985221764/sometimes-even-when-you-know-its-wrong-the) in particular (the title is taken from there). Please do check all the art out, it's awesome, and it'll make this oneshot make more sense. Hopefully this makes sense.
> 
> I would like to make it clear that I am not writing fic for the whole AU - that's already being planned by [loyalty-honour-a-willing-heart](http://loyalty-honour-a-willing-heart.tumblr.com) [[link](http://loyalty-honour-a-willing-heart.tumblr.com/post/94349288309/the-crusaders-au-is-coming-to-life)]
> 
> I just was inspired enough to write this oneshot. Hopefully it's alright. Thank you very much to alkjira for the read through.
> 
> Anyhow, please enjoy <3

This cannot happen. This must not.

 

Thorin has been telling himself this for… he does not know how long. The days and weeks have bled together in this place, in this small oasis of peace and calm. For a long time he had been injured and bedbound, even fearing in fever-created terror that he was going to be tortured.

 

Instead of that he has been shown kindness from an enemy. Or… someone who _had_ been an enemy.

 

He has no answer why this man has not only let him live but nursed him to health, just as he has no answer why he has stayed instead of escaping. Thorin is not being held against his will, but now that he can move and walk of his own volition, he has no reason to stay. If he is found by his people, he will be branded deserter and traitor, and the punishment for that is death. He should return, not only to the army but to his family, if they are still alive.

 

Yet this stranger faces the same fate… and remains.

 

When he speaks, Thorin feels his heart’s burdens lift, if only for a small time. He has dressed Thorin’s wounds countless times, has helped Thorin walk even with his slight frame, has even helped to feed Thorin when he had been too weak to even sit up.

 

Thorin feels a little ashamed that he cannot offer the same compassion in return. He tells himself that this is why he stays, so he may fulfil some wish the stranger has. There is a debt that he owes and he will see it repaid while he still has breath in his lungs and strength in his body.

 

First he must know what the man desires.

 

There are words between them now, taught to each other in their shared time – but they are few, stumbled over, barely understandable. Their conversations are held with gestures, with trial and error, with smiles and frowns and tender hands.

 

Thorin feels like he knows this man and doesn’t know him. He is both a stranger and not, and while Thorin owes him his life, he cannot honestly say whether they are friends.

 

It is with a horrible dropping sensation low in his belly that he realises he wants _more_. It makes him frightened.

 

Prayer has not made his path any clearer: has God turned him away for his sins, or is it that God does not fault love in any form? Thorin has only ever learned that love is love, though scholars of the Qur’an would surely cast Thorin away if he voiced his thoughts and desires.

 

It must be why he feels like what he is doing wrong.

 

They are only thoughts. Dangerous thoughts, yes, but he has the control to keep his hands to himself. He only wishes that his – _stranger, friend, temptation_ –, he only wishes that this man would do the same.

 

He always seems to be there when Thorin’s thoughts spiral downwards. And it always seems like a touch from him – a tap to his shoulder, a tug on his tunic, a hand over his – makes Thorin forget all else. They are soothing, yes, but they also have the power to set his body aflame with unwanted feelings.

 

Unwanted lust.

 

Still he stays.

 

They are out in the open today, green grass beneath and blue sky overhead. The sun falls on his hair and it is spun gold, almost as bright and beautiful as his face. He is speaking, but only two words in a hundred mean anything to Thorin. He does not listen but hears, drinking in the sound of the not-stranger’s voice as thoroughly as he drinks in the sight of him.

 

He is winkling out the seeds in his pomegranate half – Thorin has finished his own – with enough concentration to crease his forehead. He laughs easily when some seeds escape his grasp and fall into his lap, and Thorin can only look on in wonder.

 

He… cannot save himself. He cannot deny himself any longer.

 

“Bilbo,” he says. The name is honey sweet on his tongue.

 

The man looks up, smiling. It slowly falls away, and Thorin wonders what his own expression looks like.

 

His hand is too large, too rough, and he tries to be gentle as he touches Bilbo’s face. Almost as one their lips part, Bilbo stuttering in a gasp as the breath leaves Thorin’s lungs. Pink-red stains pale cheeks and Thorin traces over the warmth. The colour is almost as dark as the juice that has tinged his fingers. It is an unfamiliar sight.

 

All of this is unfamiliar.

 

The pomegranate has fallen. Bilbo’s hands are loose and open. They do not push Thorin away.

 

When they come together there is pain, exquisite pain that tears through him and leaves him wanting for more. Terror seizes him – terror of what he is doing, what they are doing, out in the open where anyone can see, if there was anyone to see – and then he lets it go. There is an answering pressure against his mouth.

 

Bilbo’s lips are soft and dry, with just an edge of sweet and sour. Thorin knows that he will be able to catch the taste properly, if only he presses forward, but he is not brave enough. He is trembling, he knows, and when he slides his hands over Bilbo’s sides to the small of his back, he can feel Bilbo shaking in his arms.

 

He cannot breathe. He cannot think. There is only the man – _not a stranger, not a friend, someone he loves, someone who may love him, a man, a man, a man_ –, there is only Bilbo who cups Thorin’s face in his hands.

 

His touch is welcome, but this time it is not calming.

 

Thorin tears himself away, but he does not go far. He chases the colour in Bilbo’s cheek and their noses bump and then slide against each other.

 

Bilbo’s arms have twined tight around his neck, hands twisting into dark hair, and he wants this, he _wants_ this like Thorin does. They tumble onto the grass, their grip on each other keeping them close, and Thorin desperately presses their foreheads together even as he yearns to kiss Bilbo again. He must be strong. He must keep his distance.

 

But he has already tried – tried and failed. Tried for so long to ignore the creeping, choking feelings, to push Bilbo away, to stay away. Yet now he is ducking his head, pressing tiny, fluttering kisses from forehead to cheek, cheek to chin. Bilbo surges forward, catching Thorin by surprise, and their lips are parted – he doesn’t know what to do. His body reacts for him, and he tilts his head, slipping into the deep dark promise of Bilbo’s mouth.

 

He has failed and he is falling… but there is a small hopeful part of him that whispers: Bilbo will be there to catch him. And he will be there to catch Bilbo.

 

This cannot happen. This must not.

 

It has.

**Author's Note:**

> Not my usual style, but I hope I didn't mangle the fic ;D  
> Thanks for getting this far.


End file.
